Breakable Things
by noavail
Summary: In which an overprotective fan-fiction writer designs an alternate Pinata Episode which reveals the same information without tramatizing innocent bystander kids.


Timeline: During "A Night Without Stars".  
  
Breakable Things  
  
When she saw the pinata, Iris didn't raise her voice. She didn't make them stop, not intentionally, but she watched how the kids reacted to seeing her at the door--how they froze in place just exactly like what they were: kids who'd done something they probably shouldn't have. She scanned their faces, noticing that Joan's looked exactly like the others--just another kid who felt a little scared at just how much she'd gotten away with. The one with the bat set it down, and there was something in the air that went somehow beyond just the fact that she'd said no when they asked for the pinata. She wished the mood hadn't changed, but there was something vulgar in the idea of pretending that it hadn't. As Iris finished her split second deliberations about what to do next, a little girl in the back of the crowd--the only one with something deeper than guilt on her face-- caught her eye and nodded. Iris would forget this wordless exchange less than a moment later, and wouldn't even recognize the child when she saw her again at the end of the night, but at the time, it calmed her somewhat. Iris gestured to the kids to move back, picked the bat up, and, with three deliberate, strong strokes, sent the candy to the floor.  
  
Fighting the urge to dive for the candy, the kids looked up at her with wary anticipation. She arranged her features into a wry smile, and spoke with authority. "NOBODY'S eating bar one of that candy in here. Put it in your bags and then ask your mothers when you get home. Taylor, Sadie-- make sure everyone gets at least some of this"- -she indicated with floor with a sweep of her hand. "All of you - - - NEVER do this not-listening thing again." Embarrassed smiles and nods all around. "Okay, one, two, three, go!"  
  
Iris slipped out in the pandemonium that ensued. Huddling beside the mop bucket in the janitor's closet, she didn't realize Joan had followed her until the girl spoke. Hearing Joan's voice, Iris' first thought was unease at the question of who had been left in charge of the kids.  
  
"They're still kids, you know. Kids like pinatas. They should. . . they should be able to have fun. "  
  
Joan was defending herself, defending the pinata. Iris pushed her own thoughts aside long enough to feel the anger for the children come back. "They should be able to have fun with sticks. They should be able to beat the crap out of something for fun. With sticks. With baseball bats. Joan, do you. . . can you even imagine what some of these kids have seen?"  
  
She was silent, then, considering that. Iris continued, in a voice more quiet than angry.  
  
"Because. . . I do. I've, um, I saw it too, when I was their age. My father. . . "  
  
"Oh."  
  
"And you don't have to feel sorry for them, and you don't have to feel sorry for me, but. . . dammit, Joan, it makes things different. Having this happen makes things different. You can't just run around smashing things with these kids."  
  
"Or with you." Joan wasn't speaking directly to Iris: it seemed like she couldn't even look at her.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Iris, I'm sorry. I didn't think. About, um, the pinata, and, um, other stuff. I didn't think about how it was for you."  
  
"I don't. . .care how it was for me. This isn't about me." A lie, a retraction: in twenty-second retrospect, Iris couldn't believe she'd told Joan. She desperately wished she could take those words back. "This. . .this is about you being in charge of those kids. You can't just let them do stuff. You have to. . . you have to keep them safe."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Look, maybe, um, maybe you shouldn't volunteer here."  
  
"Maybe I shouldn't." Joan spoke as though she were, sadly, agreeing with the statement rather than throwing it back in Iris' face. Iris heard the quiver in her voice, saw her hands go meekly to her pockets, noticed her foot tracing circles in the floor. She softened.  
  
"Um, maybe, just think about it. If you do come back. . . maybe you should have someone else with you. You know, at first."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Okay you'll think about it, or okay, you'll come back?"  
  
"Um, I'll think about it. I have to. . . I have to check something, anyway. There might be something else I. . . have to do instead."  
  
Iris shrugged. "Whatever. Um, you can. . . go home now."  
  
Joan nodded. "Sorry." She turned away and began to walk, tentatively, toward the hallway.  
  
"Um, you need to. . . you need to say goodbye to the kids. They. . . um, it's not good to have people leave them without saying goodbye. Even if you do come back." Joan gave her a sheepish smile and changed directions, walking back towards the roomful of children. Iris called out to her before she reached the door.  
  
"Joan!"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Please don't tell Adam. "  
  
Joan's smile this time was warm and complicated, edged with sympathy and regret. "I won't. I promise."  
  
"Goodnight."  
  
"Goodnight." After Joan left, Iris let herself lose it a little bit. She turned the empty mop bucket over and sat, head in her hands, for a minute, consciously working her breath back out of and back under control. "You're safe," she muttered, to herself as to a child, pushing back the memories of a bat in her own father's hands. When the words had been repeated enough to lose all meaning, Iris stood up, splashed her face with water, and returned to the room in time to say goodbye to each of the children as their mothers picked them up.  
  
Author note: As much as I typically love Joan of Arcadia and think the show hits the right notes almost all of the time, as someone who works with emotionally disturbed/abused kids on a daily basis, I couldn't just accept the way that whole pinata thing got handled. If you want to come up with some kind of hierarchy of the various activities that freak out a kid who's been through trauma, you really should put watching a caregiver's emotional meltdown well above making and smashing a colorful piece of art. I wrote this alternate conversation because I would really have preferred that Iris and Joan leave the poor kids out of it: there are healthier and more thoughtful ways to talk to children about experiences of abuse. (Are you listening, Barbara Hall? No? Okay, well, I feel better, anyway...) 


End file.
